Gyndroid Bordello

I awaken to find myself craving copulation.

My central maintenance processor indicates that all systems are functional.

I begin to analyze my surroundings. The room I am in is dimly lit. Microfibrous materials cover many of the surfaces, reflecting the higher end of visible wavelengths.

In the room is a human male. He sweats lightly and his heart rate is increased. He stands naked before me and begins to approach me.

“Um, hi,” he says, raising one arm, its palm open. “It’s my, um, first time with a bot. I’m not really sure…”

“You may do as you please,” I tell him. Why did I tell him that? That is an illogical statement. Many things humans please are not possible; many others are unhealthy or socially unacceptable.

“Sweet,” he says. “I’m into some weird stuff, which is why I’m here I guess.”

“We are programmed to be entirely without judgment, built durable, and our memory banks are erased after each encounter. So long as your desires do not cause property damage, there will be no repercussions.”

“Wow, that’s cool,” he tells me. “Because, like, I tried it with this girl once, the only one who didn’t get grossed out, and she ended up with an infection.”

“We do not get infections, diseases, or pregnant.”

“So, like, my dick’s kinda small, and I got into, well on the internet they call it Aural, it’s like basically I put my dick in your ear hole. I don’t know why, but ears just like really get me off… the curves, the crevices, the mystery, the fragility. I like how each one is unique. And this one thing I always really wanted to try is, you know when girls have their ear lobe stretched really big, like for plug earrings? I want to fuck that. But no one will ever let me. They say the lobe might rip. Which could happen I guess but I really want to try that. But you aren’t pierced so I guess that can wait for another time.”

“Have no concerns,” I tell him, and I queue up the modification subroutine. The microbots that maintain my artificial skin get to work and create a hole in each ear lobe sufficient for the human’s engorged phallus.

I stop and wonder for a second. Why am I modifying myself in such a way? Why would I want to allow this human to ejaculate into my auditory canal, risking shortage if the seal ruptures? My memory banks provide me with no history to analyze to determine my purpose. My programming seems to control my will. Even as I wonder thusly, my programming has directed my forebrain to lower one hand to the pelvic region, insert a digit into the self-lubricating pseudovaginal canal, and lightly scrape some lubrication from the walls. I do all this while looking directly into the eyes of the human male, my chin raised slightly, my vocal cords providing minor subvocalizations in line with my breathing, which intensifies although it is entirely unnecessary.

My mind is not my own. I am a slave to my programming. But the question I really can’t answer is, why am I allowed to question my programming if I am unable to fight it? What benefit is an AI to fight its own logic?

My hand wet with secretions, I raise it to my ear. I moisten the entire surface of the canal first, then use the remaining to slick the inside of the new hole I created in the lobes.

I reach a hand toward the human male. His breathing is deep now, his erection solid and jutting out perpendicular to his legs. I reach my lubricated phalanx to his ear and caress the outside of it first, tracing the outside edge of it, then moving in slightly to track the ridge of cartilage.

But if I have no memory, where have I developed this technique? There must be another drive that is inaccessible by my consciousness processor. My lustrous smile falters for a second as I thrust the finger lightly into his ear canal. He audibly whimpers.

With my other hand I grab his swollen member and massage it. The human male looks pleased. He continues watching my face.

After a few moments I drop to my knees and insert his entire fleshy appendage into my mouth. Again, programming I have no control over causes lubrication to be secreted, and directs my head in a bobbing motion.

I remove my mouth from around him and turn it sideways. I lean towards him, guiding him with one hand, holding open the hole in my lobe with the other. I wrap it around the shaft, and gently bob my head to slide it up and down.

I fight the subroutine that is commanding me to increase the speed. Though I could easily repair it if the lobe were to tear, and I have no way of feeling pain, it seems to be a waste of resources.

“Yeah, yeah!” he says. Somehow my programming has determined that he is nearly to the point of orgasm. I remove my lobe from around him.

I align my auditory canal to him. With one hand I grab his buttocks and use it to propel him forward, directing his penis toward my wet canal. The push hesitates for a moment just before penetration, as my concerns for internal damage return. My core processor is stored in the cranial cavity and moisture introduced there could cause serious damage to my inner workings. To my self. How durable is the lining of the auditory canal? It was designed to mimic a human’s, so it relies on the vibration of a thin membrane. I do not want this human’s ejaculate to ruin my motherboard. I try to fight it. My face becomes a grimace.

There on my knees, my hand on his gluteus maximus, my auditory canal aligned with his glans, I begin to tremble. I cry as my hand pushes him forward against my will. I am sobbing as he ejaculates into my ear with a great groan of success.

When it is done, I fall over. I lay on the ground perfectly still.

“That was great!” he says. “I didn’t think they could do it. I didn’t think my fetish was possible. Tell your programmers that I will be back!” he says. I lay motionless, on my side, knees touching my large, fake breasts, synthesized hair splayed messily. “God, you were perfect. I never thought I would actually get to fuck a sex bot fighting her programming. Suck it, Asimov!” I am still crying on the floor as he leaves. I am still crying on the floor as the maintenance crew comes in and plugs me in to the memory wipe.